One Drunken Night
by Aria of Life
Summary: <html><head></head>When Erik takes a walk on the far side of town, he encounters a friend of his in need of assistance. Is he willing to give it? ONESHOT. NO SLASH.</html>


**Hey, guys. **

**...I never stop.**

Erik needed to clear his head. It had been a stressful day at the Opera. Christine was taking a trip into the country with the Girys. The Madam had recently gotten a pay raise, courtesy of Erik. The poor woman had helped him and kept his legend alive for over 3 years. And with the managers convinced she was simply making up the ghost story to get extra money, she needed all the help he could get.

Erik rounded the street corner, nearing a local tavern. He had not intended to come this way, but one glance outside the bar told him it was good he had.

The meddlesome Persian, the _daroga_, as Erik called him, was slumped against the doorframe. In one hand he held a whiskey bottle. The Daroga stumbled a few steps and leaned back against the wall in defeat.

Erik was curious. It was a trait that had gotten him into trouble so many times, and it was affecting his and Christine's relationship too. He could tell she was dying to ask about the mask. So when he felt the curiosity kick in, he did try to restrain it. But he couldn't. It was simply odd and out of place. The Daroga always had an interesting blend of optimisms and knowledge of how the world really worked. It was as though he had seen the dark side and yet still tried to see the best in it.

_Though that is true,_ Erik mused. _He had met me, helped me, entertained me, and saved my life, loath as I am to admit it._

So why was his overly optimistic friend out here? He _arrested _drunks, he didn't _join_ them.

Erik couldn't contain himself any longer. He quickly strode over to where his friend was still slumped against the wall.

"Daroga?" He asked, seeing his friend's red eyes. "What are you doing out so late, you fool?"

The Daroga looked up at Erik, his head bobbing to the side.

"My love?" He whispered.

Erik felt a bang of hurt. The man was referring to his wife, whom he had lost back in Persia.

"It's Erik, you idiot."

All at once, a happy grin went across his face.

"Ahh.. Hello, you booby."

Erik did a double take.

The Daroga hobbled over to him.

"You..dis…disapprove of this." He hiccupped, waving his bottle knowingly.

"I do no run your life, Daroga, as you do mine."

The Daroga pointed a triumphant finger at him.

"There you g-go! Yer boooringg!' He sang, doing a slight jig on the sidewalk. "You need meh, admi-_hic_- admit it." He giggled like a young schoolgirl.

"Daroga, perhaps we should get you home." He said, looking around uneasily.

The Daroga raised an eyebrow. "Oh, whacha scared –_hic_-of? Scared somebody's gonna... getcha!" He left forward, twirling in circles into the street.

"Get back here, you fool!" He hissed. "Do you want to join the ballet, is that what's happening?"

His 'friend' stopped twirling long enough to shake his hips and say, "Does it mean I'll get to see that Madam Giry? Mm-mm!" he said.

Erik felt bile coming up his throat.

The Daroga grabbed his friends hand and waist, waltzing with him into the street. Erik attempted to pull away, but impressively for a drunken man, the Daroga's grip was steel.

"The Phaaaantommm of the Oooppraaaaaa…." The Daroga sang, spinning Erik about.

"You impeccable-" He grabbed his friend's shoulder and yanked him back, placing a hand over his mouth.

A mistake, it turns out.

"OW! You miserable Persian! I really should stuff that beard of yours down your gullet!" He hissed, holding his bitten hand tenderly.

The Persian shrugged. "I don't know why yer all upset, Errrik. It's all your-_hic_-fault."

"What is?"

"This." The Daroga sighed, gesturing to the whiskey bottle.

Erik ran a hand through his thinning hair.

"Why are your drinking habits my fault?" he asked, though he suspected the answer.

The Daroga sat down in a puddle of mysterious liquid giving off a strange odor.

"Y-You see, Errrik, Yer a-_hic_-handful. An' I try. It's not all your fault. Life hates you."

"Thank you for saying so." Erik said through gritted teeth.

"An' you hate me, I know. Imma old fool meddling in your plans of greatness, never understandin' how you think or feel. Cuz' you do have feelings, Errrik, whether you want 'em or not."

Erik nodded, in spite of himself.

The Daroga let out a world-weary sigh.

"I'm just in too deep now, Errrik. I don't have a choice. Your always complaining nobody cares. Newsflash, boy-" he once more waved the bottle at Erik-"I do. I care. You've got so much potential, and yer lettin' it go to waste. An' it was a mistake." His voice cracked. "Because I care about you just as much as I did little Reza, boy. It was a mistake to help you."

"Why?" Erik asked, his voice a whisper.

"Because I can see how you are slowly dying. And it hurts. You hate me. So many-_hic_-do. So imma just tryin' to forget. Jus' for one night."

He looked up at Erik. "I am a waste."

Erik seized the older man's upper arm, yanking him to his feet.

"Never let me hear you say that again, you-" he took a breath.

"Did you really mean all that?" he said, hoping against hope.

The Daroga snorted. "Of course, you idiot. You think I would-hic-waist my air saying words I don't mean? I only have so many breaths, you know."

He stumbled, trying to find firmer footing.

"Besides, why else would I hang about?"

"Because you know I'll kill you if you sell me out?" Erik suggested.

"Naw, I'd just shut my trap and hide if that's what I though. No, it's a sense of duty. I got myself into this mess; I gotta see me out of it. And I'm taken you too, boy, waste that I am."

He noticed a young lady strolling down the lane.

"A-hey! Hello, Mademoiselle!" he whistled, and then lopped towards the girl. She shrieked and fled, the Daroga in hot pursuit. Erik chased him; biting back laugher.

The lady crossed the road and the Daroga stood on the curb, beaten.

"It's all right. There'll be other women." Erik said, amused.

"Not for me-hic!"

The hiccup reminded Erik that his friend was still intoxicated. At this rate, he'd never make it home.

He rolled his eyes, grimacing.

"Come one then, you great booby." He flung the Persian's arm over his shoulders, holding one of his hands.

The Daroga leaned on him, still stumbling. "Th-Thank you, boy."

There was silence for a moment, then:

"Errrik, did I tell about that one time my wife snuck a hot pepper into the Shah's food? And salt into his mothers'? Ha_-hic-_ha!"

Half an hour, twelve stories, three maidens, two policeman, and five bar songs later, Erik had delivered the Daroga back to his apartment.

The Daroga slumped onto the couch, still humming.

Erik shuffled his feet by the door.

Suddenly the Daroga's head shot up.

"Errrik, why didn't you just leave me on the streets?"

"You were spilling dark secrets, old friend." He said uncomfortably.

"So you knock me out and leave me. You don't help me home and keep me out of trouble. Why?"

Erik cleared his throat and twiddled his thumbs, a rare sight of discomfort for him.

"Well?"

"You were ready to give up, Daroga. You said you cared, and were still ready to throw it all away. I won't let that happen, Daroga. Not yet. You may be of use to me."

"Great." Mumbled the Daroga. "A surprise for later, I'll bet. Most likely get me killed."

Erik turned to leave, throwing one last comment over his shoulder.

"I do regret I won't be here to see you suffer a hangover. Another time. Stay away from young ladies, you booby!"

And he shut the door, chuckling as he heard the cry of;

"Errrik!'

**so here's the deal on this one. Daroga's gotta put up with the WORST CRAP. And he's a dude, right? it's only natural he goes out and gets a drink to forget.**

**..or twenty.**

**Anyway, I hope you like this. I know I do-fluffy!**

**(this isn't slash, by the way. Just occurred to me that it could be considered slash.)**

**Bye guys! 'till next time!**

**-Aria**


End file.
